


The Moth & Flame

by FormerBunhead



Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: F/M, Morning After
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:13:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29851686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FormerBunhead/pseuds/FormerBunhead
Summary: I've been a devil, I've been a saintSomebody help me, I can't changeI keep on running towards, running towards the fireGonna get burned, gonna get burned-"The Fire," Bishop Briggs
Relationships: Fleabag & Priest (Fleabag), Fleabag/Priest (Fleabag)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 32





	1. The Fire

He wakes up to fingers ghosting delicate patterns over his neck and shoulders. He doesn’t even realize it's her at first, the touch is that light. It could be a breeze from the open window or a scratch from the corner of the pillowcase. Wingbeats of a gauzy moth, phantom impressions left over from a dream. 

He slowly remembers where he is. Then he remembers why he’s there, and he doesn’t want to open his eyes. It's not that he regrets any of it. He just wants to give proper reverence to the images shuttering through his mind like smudgy vacation slides on the old-fashioned projector in his grandparents’ living room. Only these snapshots aren’t from a sunny seaside holiday. 

These images are breath and teeth, the tang of tears and sweat, slick mouths and fingers and skin on fire. They’re the sharp of her hip bone, the cracked plaster wall in the sitting room, jacket and shirt and trousers marking a trail through the hallway. They’re the icy gin of her tongue after she’d made them drinks, the belt it was hard to unbuckle, both of them laughing and swearing, heads knocking together, shaky with nerves and need. They’re how she somehow managed to shed knickers and bra, and still be in her coat when he threw her on the bed. They’re the duvet he had to shuck off because it was too fucking heavy, the mewling he coaxed from her and the way she said his name, the long scratch on his bicep that stings.

But he’ll have time to meditate on all that. Acres of time, years and years. Right now, he’s here. She’s looking at him, he can feel it, her gaze tracing along with her fingers. He needs to get out of his head and have a look at her, too. 

So he says, groggily, brilliantly, “What?” Followed by, “What do you think?”  
  
He doesn’t even know what he means by it. Words don’t seem to be working the way they usually do. He feels drunk and high and strung out and dead sober all at the same time. He can’t tell his ass from his elbow. That’s how badly she’s fucked him up. 

When he rolls to face her, he doesn’t know what to expect. He’s probably rumpled and smushy-faced, but that’s fine, post-coital sleepyhead has traditionally been a pretty good look for him. What does _she_ look like in the morning, though? 

He’s ready for raccoon eyes, mascara smudged and flaking. A sheen of oil across her nose or dried crud at the edge of her mouth, curls flattened. Frayed and faded remnants of the way she’d looked last night, framed in the front door, red lipped, hungry eyed, gorgeous. Hot-Blooded, her lipstick was called; the sight of it on her Boots receipt the night they met had made his stomach drop out of his body and roll away under a table. He wishes he could visit himself in that wood-paneled restaurant hallway, help that bumbling priest stuff all the shit back into her bag, and go, “You poor, sad bastard. You think you know about hot-blooded? Just wait."   
  
(Also: had he actually, truly believed he was showing up at her flat to have a stern chat and set things straight?! When, in his head, he’d been yanking her coat open and slamming her against the nearest hard surface before he’d even crossed the threshold? And, yeah, she obviously wasn’t wearing much under that coat -- he hadn’t known that then, but still. _He’d_ _known_.)  
  
So he’s prepared for a disheveled and craggy and spent version of Phoebe, because he’s sure that’s how _he_ looks. He’s going to be very into how cute it is on her. He gets his tender mascara-wiping thumb ready. 

Unfortunately, what Phoebe actually looks like in the morning? Is a Greek fucking goddess carved from milk-white marble. Only instead of cold and hard and rigid and untouchable, she’s warm, and soft, and loose-limbed, and he’s pretty sure he can touch her however he wants.

This is detrimental to his cause. That cause being: you are a goddamn priest, sir, keep it in your pants, not that you’re wearing any. And whatever you do, don’t fall in love.

That cause being now, officially, lost.

Gazing at her from close range -- bottom lip tucked into her teeth, slow-blinking morning-after eyes -- isn’t helping. Part of the problem is that she’s mashed up all five of his senses into one messy whopping pheromone squash cocktail, and you can’t unmix a drink. So when he’s looking at her, he’s simultaneously smelling her expensive face cream and tasting the underside of her breast and touching his fingertip to the charm that rests in the hollow of her throat and hearing her snore adorably into his armpit.

This is all he’s wanted since day one, since the dinner and the scarlet lips and the jumpsuit and the punch. To unlock her, check out what was going on under there, find out where it all came from -- the fury and spark, hot blood pumping through her veins. He’s wanted to follow it down to the source. He'd stupidly thought he didn't need sex to get there, but he shouldn't be shocked that's where they ended up. Both of them are the moth, and both of them are the fire.  
  
So he's here now. Past the gates, at the inception point. He’s in.  
  
And it’s a disaster. Niamh had told him it would be, and he’d said as much to Phoebe last night: “If I fall in love with you, I won't burst into flames. But my life will be fucked.” He's gotten all three for a bargain: fucked life. Flames. Love.  
  
He’s a fucking idiot. He’s not built for this, every decision he's ever made a ward against it. Niamh had told him that, too. 

Because now that he’s gotten in, how the fuck is he going to get out?


	2. Wild Horses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You hold me down in the best way  
> No quarter from these chains that I've  
> Slapped on my heart for a feeling  
> Why can't I let my demons lie?  
> Keep screaming into the pillow  
> 'Cause your touch still gets me stupid high  
> Oh glory, I'm a believer  
> Oh glory, I'ma try, but--
> 
> \- ["Wild Horses," Bishop Briggs](https://open.spotify.com/track/1vHyZsydQf4h2yDhujnqvQ?si=edb42f52f6fd48d7)

* * *

The way his gaze flicks over me is almost better than being touched. Almost. 

He’s asked me what I’m thinking. At least that’s how I’m interpreting it, because his actual question is pretty weird. What do I _think_ ? About _what_? Your dick? It’s great, five stars, your parents should be very proud. About how good you look wrapped in my duvet, all ruddy and squishy-faced with your sex-lidded eyes, licking your goddamn chops at me? Please, they don’t even give marks that high. Kiss-ass. 

I’m too loopy with dopamine and lack of sleep to come up with anything other than an equally inscrutable reply: “I can’t believe you did that.”

“I know,” he says, hushed and incredulous, wrinkling his smushy sleepy forehead. Then he smiles, pushing up papery ridges at the edges of his eyes. I desperately want to kiss them, but I’m not sure I’m allowed. “Wait. What exactly can’t you believe I did?” 

“I mean...” Teasing. Lifting my eyebrows. It's all I need to say, because... holy shit, where do I even start.

I guess I’d imagined we were going to bang it out once, quick and dirty, leave it at that. Followed by him panic-rabbiting his way back into the night, weeping and gnashing his teeth, having literally rent his garments. Figured I’d then studiously ignore him at the wedding, pretend I didn’t see him lurking by the drinks queue. Have a silent nervous breakdown about how deadly his arms look in that bedazzled religious bedsheet and how all of it proves I will never be capable of love. The end.

But that is not what happened. What happened was _major sex_ . That’s what Boo used to call it -- tawdry mid-2000s Victoria Beckham accent and all -- when she’d slept with someone who was good at not only the sex part but the feelings part. And here we are, the priest and I, having had tender, gorgeous, psychotically intense sex. Lots of it. So there is really an infinite number of things I can say I can’t believe he did.  
  
If you'd like a laundry list, here goes: taking me apart with his tongue in agonizing slow motion. Growling into my ear “Oh my _fucking_ god, Phoebe” when he came, hand kneading into the crease between my thigh and hip, forcing me away just a little, making it last. Dozing off with his heavy fucking leg flung across my body, boyish and unguarded. Staying the night in my bed. Waking up next to me looking like he belongs here.  
  
Fuck. 

Based on his face, I’d wager we’re watching similar mental highlight reels. It’s like being in some kind of sexy staring contest. One we both appear to be winning. 

He reaches for the hand I have tucked under my cheek, hooking his index finger through mine and tugging it towards him with a half-smile. He passes his thumb across my knuckles, that swift to-and-fro motion that I now recognize as one of his fidgets. One of his tells. 

For someone who is supposed to be out of practice, he sure doesn’t feel out of practice. This is obviously not his first rodeo as a vow-breaking, sex-having priest, only his most recent one, and I’d rather not pretend otherwise.

“So how often do you do this?” I keep it light, but I’m prepared to be persistent.

“Do what?” Playing dumb. It’s fucking infuriating. Maybe just infuriatingly adorable. 

He pretends to adjust the pillow underneath his head, but actually he’s scooching closer. It’s very cute, a nerdy move as transparent as it was the night of the fox: stand up to freak out, sit back down on the bench six inches closer. Rinse, repeat. Only this time nobody’s wearing clothes, so that’s a bonus. Wouldn’t say no to the Buffalo Bill shirt, though.  
  
We’re nose to nose, my hand in his between us. I’m having trouble remembering what we’re talking about. He reeks of sex and coconut, which only enhances the hypnotic effect of his mystical tantric hand-eye voodoo. I barely manage to yank my brain back on track.

“How often,” I repeat, “do you sleep with people you barely know?” I keep my voice low, because it feels nervy and fun, like we’re kids playing hide and seek in church. Maybe if we’re quiet enough, God won’t notice we’re here, and I'll actually get a straight answer. Also, if God can't find him, God can't make him leave.

He knits his eyebrows. “What do you mean? I’m celibate,” he says. Serious face, solemn tone. Meanwhile, his free hand, the one not linked with mine, pushes between my waist and the mattress, then slides up my back, fingers threading the hair at my neck. Cheeky liar. 

“Answer the question!” I laugh. He hasn’t answered a single one yet. They say payback’s a bitch.

A single line appears between his eyebrows. I see my opening and greedily press my lips to that little furrow, kiss the lovely eye crinkles for good measure. I honestly think I could get high off them. The ridge of his grecian nose (fucking _love_ his nose) presses into my chin, I feel his breath puff against my throat. It’s terrifyingly intimate. 

“Do you really want to know?” He manages to look bashful and wolfish at the same time, which sends my heart rate through the roof. Because that look is the last three weeks in miniature: the hellion and the holy man circling each other, never at war but never at peace, a permanent standoff.

“Of course I want to know. I’m nosy. Plus I’d like to be aware of potential venereal diseases and/or jealous lovers who’d want to get into it with me.”

He laughs. “I know who my money’s on.” I glower at him: _Answer. The fucking. Question._ Or you'll have to tangle with me too. More of a promise than I threat, I guess.

“Special occasions only,” he acquiesces, tiny shrug that pretends to be sheepish. 

“And what, may I ask, constitutes a special occasion for a priest?” 

“Well, there’s Christmas. Birthdays. That’s about it.”

“Oh, happy birthday, then.” His thumb is skating circles on my shoulder blade. 

“It’s not my birthday.” 

“Well, it’s certainly not Jesus’s. Even I know that.” 

His foot skims over my leg, light and searching, running down to my ankle until, like the rest of us, our feet are entwined. “I’m celebrating early this year.” 

“Won’t your usual Christmas date be disappointed?” Fucking hell, my voice cracks like a teenager’s. Heat splotches across my jaw and chest. Get it together, Phoebe. 

“What do you mean, _usual_?” More smirking. Damn him.

His knee wedges my legs apart, insistent. Pushing his buttons is paying off in spades, so I keep at it. “Wait, I’m trying to wrap my head around this. Paint me a picture. Christmas Eve, snow falling, out for a walk after midnight mass, collar on, whole bit. Are we chatting up ladies at the pub, or are we drunkenly ringing exes?”

He winces hard, so I know I’ve struck a nerve. Definitely exes. 

Apparently he thinks upping his game will get him out of this. There’s suddenly an awful lot of neck-burrowing, collarbone kissing, and ass-palming happening in this bed. Nice try, pal. This isn’t my first rodeo, either.

“Tell me. It’s only fair.” I brace myself against his arms so I can prompt him in a singsong: “Tell me your ssss….” 

“....Ssssins,” he finishes with me. Shakes his head, rueful, grinning. “You already know how that one ends. Not gonna do it.” 

“Come on!” I’m not letting up. I flop away, which he does _not_ like. _Really_ does not like. My gut buzzes as he gets me by the wrists, hooks a leg hard behind my knees, yanks me closer. Guess we’re wrestling after all. 

“I told you my dirty secrets,” I say, using my church voice again. He's looking at me, amused and cocky, like _so the fuck what?_ Now it's my turn to up the stakes. "I mean, you heard the gentleman at the door last night.”

He rubs his face into my hair, groaning as he looks at me sideways. “And to think I’d _very nearly_ forgotten that guy."

There’s humor in his voice, but I hear the serrated edge of something else, too. He sounds like he did at the church fete when he looked back and forth from me to Harry, then told him, “Good for you.” One part peacocking, one part dude-bro high five, and one part unadulterated _I really fucking want you, Phoebe_. 

Reminding him that I have recently had an enormous number of orgasms he didn't give me is what finally does it. He springs, snatching me up, hauling himself on top of me. He is very strong (the fucking arms, SEND HELP), and he means business. I can’t wait; thank God I don't have to. His dick stabs my inner thigh, thrumming with its own urgent heartbeat. He’s ending this conversation. Now.

"What's going to happen is you'll give me your number, Phoebe.” All bossy. He's scraping his nose against mine. When he kisses me, it's anything but gentle. Gripping my jaw, forcing my mouth open, dragging at my bottom lip with his teeth. For once I don't mind shutting up -- his hands are fucking _everywhere_ . I'm already so stoned on his touch that I barely catch what he mutters into my mouth: "Next time, I’ll ring _you_ on Christmas."


	3. Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Funny how a blessing feels just like a curse  
> Bad love hurts, but somehow good love hurts me worse  
> Lately I've been keeping honey from the bees  
> So if you ever leave, at least it's bittersweet  
> I dive in you like water  
> I sink like a stone
> 
> \- ["Water," Bishop Briggs](https://open.spotify.com/track/0gwR22fn1mk9XLm6mpJnk8?si=dbbb133a81554801)

And just like that, nobody’s ringing anybody for a casual Christmas hook-up. It’s too good. It would be easier if it weren’t. 

She sways jelly-legged to the toilet to clean up, tossing him a dishcloth on the way. He side-eyes the laundry basket it came from, heaped with worn pajama bottoms and trackies and -- is that a man’s athletic sock? Giving the flannel a tentative sniff, he’s relieved that it smells of detergent.

He locates his boxers in a disheveled heap by the bed, tangled up with his trousers. He seems to remember hopping around in the dark in his hurry to get out of them, banging his shin on the chest of drawers and cursing a blue streak. 

He pulls them on and rounds up the rest of his clothes from around the flat, tugging his t-shirt over his head. He collects Phoebe’s stuff too, stacks it neatly on the dresser, then goes ahead and folds the bin of clean laundry. All the socks are mismatched and the rest is beyond help in terms of wrinkles, but he does his best to make really crisp pleats anyway. 

She’s still in the bathroom, so he has a quick poke around. This is standard post-sex procedure for him, or used to be, at least. It's only ever been Niamh since his ordination, and he already knows all her secrets, not that she has many. Niamh is a breath of fresh air, an open book, heart pinned to her sleeve. Loads of fun, no complications -- the perfect fuckbuddy. The anti-Phoebe.

There’s a wobbly little nightstand in the corner, looks like it came from a charity shop. Stood on top is a limbless, headless sculpture of a woman’s torso, heavy-hipped and lithe and gorgeous. He wonders if it’s one of her mother's. 

He sits on the edge of the bed and hooks his finger into the brass drawer handle. He never actually touches stuff when he snoops, but he’s relentlessly curious about people's lives, what they hide, what's lurking under the surface. He wants to _know_. Especially when it comes to Phoebe _._ Sometimes the Lord or the universe or whoever gives him an assist, like how her bag went topsy turvy at the restaurant. Not this time, though -- he has to open the drawer himself. Set an intention, justify it, and act. He hears water running in the toilet, so he’d better get cracking.

The contents of the drawer are much the same as those of her purse and her laundry basket -- jumbled, random, adorable. A half-empty packet of crisps, Jesus Mary and Joseph, it’s a miracle she doesn’t have rodents. It’s all he can do not to pluck it out and discard it in the bin for her. There’s a beat-up copy of _Jane Eyre_ , a pocket edition with yellowing pages, many of which are, to his horror, dog-eared. Loose earrings, loose change, tampons, a tiny screwdriver, a tangled mass of charging cords, nail scissors, an assortment of condoms. Fucking hell, three different vibrators -- although one might be an orphaned television remote, he's not up on the latest technology of either sort. A cheap pair of tortoise-shell glasses that, when he pictures them perched on her nose as she reads _Jane Eyre_ sitting up in bed, crumples his heart like the crisp packet.

Tucked into the corner of the drawer is a messy little stack of post-it notes, sticky edges curling up where they’d been pulled off the pad. He breaks his own rule and scoots a pack of batteries over so he can read the top few. _If you can dream it, you can do it! Never forget that y_ _ou are a boss bitch! Go get 'em, tiger! xxxxxxxxx_

The handwriting is fat and loopy, little x’s dotting the Is. Bright pink felt tip, turquoise and sapphire and chartreuse. He knows Phoebe didn’t write these, she’s not a lefty -- he recognizes the telltale tracks produced by dragging the heel of your hand across wet ink. 

He can still hear Phoebe puttering around in the bathroom, stuff clattering on the porcelain sink, soft swearing as she drops something. He cautiously thumbs through the rest of the post-its. 

There are dozens of them. All generic but clearly heartfelt encouragement, a happy rainbow of exuberant punctuation and smeary ink, like whoever wrote them was working her way through the whole 24 pack of PaperMates. It has to be a _her_ , he’s pretty sure the seedy smooth-talker from last night isn’t leaving behind cute bubble-lettered motivational quotes.

The last one in the pile is scrawled in amethyst, doodles of purple flowers framing the words. _Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened. She loved you so much, Flea. Me too. Always and ever. xx_

The toilet door squeaks, and he shoves the drawer shut, grabbing the first thing he sees off the nightstand so he can pretend to be examining it. A great way not to get caught snooping around the good stuff is to give the illusion you’re snooping around something that doesn’t matter. 

He flips the book open and immediately regrets it, because it’s a Bible, of all things. Of course it is. It's his Bible. Her Bible, now. Damn, shit, hell, and bastard.

She stands on the threshold of her room wearing a threadbare t-shirt with a cartoon bird on it above her lacy knickers. No bra. He can’t decide if he wants to hurl himself face-first into that bird or just go ahead and die. 

She beats him to it, stonking over and flinging herself onto the bed face-first. “FUCK! I knew this would happen.” 

As always, he’s at least three steps behind her. He nudges her over onto her back. 

“What did you know would happen?” he asks warily. God she’s pretty. Mostly, when their faces are this close, he’s kissing her. Now, he just looks. He always thought brown was brown, but her eyes are actually three gradations, dark chocolate and fresh-brewed coffee, ceylon cinnamon flecked around the irises. There’s a layer of down across her cheeks like the barely-there fuzz of a peach. He lifts a finger to trace the parenthesis of her eyebrow, and--

“You’re leaving!” she wails. 

He jerks his head back. “No, I’m not! Why do you think I’m leaving?” Is she fucking crazy? He’s _never_ leaving. That's the main problem of his life right now, actually, the degree to which he is never leaving.

“Because you’re wearing a shirt! A shirt means dressed, and dressed means leaving. If you’re not leaving, then _get that thing off_!” 

He’s thrown plenty of tantrums in the time they’ve known each other, but this is her first shit fit in his presence. It is adorable.

He toys with the idea of saying no, matching her stroppy energy, ordering her to _make him_ remove his shirt. Except she actually seems kind of upset, so he obligingly peels it off. No one could accuse him of making a show of it -- except for her, and that’s only because she’s got her tractor-beam hawk eyes on him. 

She takes the shirt and balls it up, tossing it away. He feels compelled to fold it with the others, but the urge is not that hard to resist because there are other, more urgent urges happening. Phoebe is right there and she is fucking captivating.

“Better?” he asks, joking a little, but mostly using his uber-soothing priest voice. “You calm now?”

She gives a tiny nod, like she’s not entirely sure. “Okay, good,” he says, tucking her fringe behind her ear, kissing the birthmark on her temple. “Because turnabout is fair play.” He slides his hand up her side, taking the hem of her t-shirt with it. She arches up to make it easier for him to remove, but his eye snags on that cartoon bird again, cute little beak following the slope of her boob to its apex, and he just kinda loses it.

“Fucking hell,” he groans. “Why is shirt on just as hot as shirt off when it comes to you? It’s very confusing.” 

She raises her eyebrows. “First Piglet, now Woodstock. You have a type, don’t you.”

“Maybe,” he says, only because he’s not really paying attention to what she’s saying. He slides his palm over her breast, hard dark nipple pushing up under the thin white fabric, teasing it with his thumb. He kisses her through the shirt, and the sound that comes out of her is ungodly.

“Jesus, pull yourself together, Phoebe,” he mutters, grinning down at her, but really he’s talking to himself. Obviously. It just makes him want to cry, how happy she is. How happy he’s made her. How happy making her happy makes him. What a fucking mess.

“Are you taking it back?” she asks suddenly, just as he’s strategizing about how to get her shirt the rest of the way off so he can cover her with his mouth again.

It takes him a second to understand what she's asking and why she’s looking at his other hand, and he chuckles. He’d forgotten about the Bible he’s still clinging to. He sits up again and she makes a little noise of disappointment, so he pulls her up too, nestling her into his side. 

“Shit, no. I was just, um… checking to see if you’d done your assigned reading.” He strums his thumb along the gilt-edged pages, snorts when they fall open to a Boots receipt. He’s going to have to get her some real bookmarks. Between this and dog-eared _Jane Eyre_ , she’s a complete philistine. “Besides, why would I take it back? It was a gift.”

“Well, I didn’t really deserve it,” she says. She holding his non-Bible toting hand, stroking the web between his forefinger and thumb with the pad of hers. His stomach lurches with the intimacy of it, a roller coaster cresting before it dives. “Seeing as my grief was fake and my loss imaginary. There was nothing to comfort.” She cuts her eyes at him, and though her voice is light, there’s something very dark swimming just below. He thinks of the statue and the necklace and the post-it notes in the drawer. 

“You think I gave you this to comfort you? Please.” He can’t have her being sad right now. Not when she’s so happy. “I did it to get in your pants. As I recall, I basically said as much the night of the fox. You should pay more attention to subtext.” 

She quirks a smile, which he’s inordinately pleased at having drawn out of her. “I was mostly paying attention to your baggy sweats.”

“The bagginess is what did it for you, huh?” She shrugs: _we like what we like._ “Well, if I’d known you were coming over…”

“What, you’d have been wearing a trench coat over lingerie with cute little flats?”

“Exactly.” They grin at each other. Two total idiots in love. “So... did you actually read the stuff I marked, Phoebe? In the Bible?” 

“Maybe.” She’s suddenly a bit cagey. “Why, is there a quiz or something?” 

“Do you want there to be a quiz?” He tugs her even closer, eyeing up that cartoon bird beak again. “I could probably come up with incentives for correct answers.”

She inhales and tips her head at him. “Actually, I’d rather quiz you.” 

This is more like it. “Sure, okay. Yes. Let’s do that. What did you have in mind?” If they play Bible strip poker, he’s gonna lose his fucking mind. They’re only wearing a few items of clothing each, he’s already down to one -- so God only knows what will happen. It’s anybody’s game.

“I just want to know why you picked what you picked,” she says. “For me to read. I mean, I was kind of surprised you didn’t sneak in anything naughty.”

What? “Are you serious? I mean, it’s subliminal, I'll grant you, but there’s some absolute filth in there. You didn’t notice?” 

She shrugs again. “Maybe it’s just because I’m not an experienced religious scholar like yourself. Or maybe the damn thing knows I’m an atheist, so it locks me out like a phone when you’ve entered the wrong passcode too many times.”

“That’s a load of bollocks,” he scoffs. “You just need to know where to look. How to see what's underneath it all, the meaning below the meaning.” 

He gets an insane idea that is also, just possibly, insanely good. “Oh my god, Phoebe,” he says, giddy, buzzing with glee and whatever else is going to torture him later. He leans his forehead into hers. “Let’s do sexy Bible study.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The author wishes to thank bringewritepurge for her role in preparing this manuscript. Especially the fizzy dialogue and the character of Niamh from STNY, who has become one of my favorite fictional people of all time. Anybody want to meet her?!


	4. Sparks Fly Upward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No Bishop Briggs lyrics this time. King Solomon and his sheep teeth and goat hair speak for themselves! (Chapter title is from the book of Job, though. See, you didn't know that YOU were getting a sexy Bible study lesson today.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The author wishes to thank the esteemed professors of biblical studies at her extremely conservative evangelical university, back in the day. I am sure they would be VERY proud of my exegesis and practical application of the sacred text. 😹
> 
> This chapter's I-Spy... Broad City easter egg, anybody??

Phoebe is initially skeptical. “Sexy Bible study? Is that a thing?” 

“Absolutely not,” he says, plumping pillows behind him, scooching back. He sits up against the headboard with the book in his lap, legs outstretched. “Come on. Come here to me.” 

She hesitates for a second, so he pats the spot next to him. That cozy little movement seems to flip a switch, because she scrambles over his legs like a puppy gone bonkers. He’s surprised she doesn’t chase her tail in a circle before burrowing into the crook of his arm and flopping her head on his shoulder. If she did have a tail, it would be thumping the bed like mad. He squeezes her by the waist and drops a kiss on top of her head.

“Fucking love a snuggle,” she mutters drowsily. And he laughs, because nobody would look at this magnificent exclamation point of a woman and think, I bet _she’s_ a really cuddle monster. But she keeps rolling over to show him this soft underbelly of hers, sweet and sappy and deeply uncool. He hasn’t done anything to earn it, nothing to deserve it. He should give her one last scritch under the chin and get the fuck out of here while he still can. 

“Do we have to go to this wedding?” she grumbles. “Can’t we just hug forever instead?”

 _Sold,_ he thinks, but doesn’t allow himself to say so.

“I dunno,” he says. “You’re kind of pointy. Get your wing-tip out of my armpit, then we’ll see.” 

They wriggle until they’re comfortable, more than necessary, shifting against each other. Do we go together like _this_ ? How about _this_? It’s silly. They fit together in all the ways.

“Okay,” he says, squishing her into his side, one hand on the meat of her thigh, one on the Bible. He lets it fall open to the midpoint. “Sexy Bible study is all about hidden messages and secret codes. Let’s start with the Psalms.”

“Ooh, this one was good,” she says. “Excessively violent. I mean, _God, shatter the teeth in their mouth_ ? _The righteous will wash in the blood of the wicked?_ This is how you usually come on to girls?”

“No, I mix it up. It’s a real plus when I know my audience,” he says. “Did you or did you not punch an evildoer in the face the night we met? You went all imprecatory psalm on that motherfucker. And I felt a certain way about it.”

She raises her eyebrows, pitches her voice low and sultry. “How did you feel, exactly?”

“The same way you did on Claire’s behalf. Like I wanted to protect you. Like I was ready to go to war and call down the wrath of God on your awful fucking family.” He pauses, remembering her fury and her lips. “Also, very turned on.” And because he’s now thinking about her jumpsuit, he does what he couldn’t do that night, trailing his finger from her navel to her sternum beneath her shirt. Letting his hand drift a little, brushing her breast.

“Oh,” she says, mouth agape, eyes twinkling. “This _is_ sexy.”

He grins. “See? This is why I’m such a good priest. I _really_ dig into the text and make it relevant to the problems of the modern world.”

“Best priest _I’ve_ ever had, for sure. I appreciate that your instruction methods are practical as well. Very hands-on.” She motions to the book as if to say, move it along. He leafs through and lands in Luke. “Okay, here’s the one about Martha and Mary.”

“The sisters who are kind of bitchy but learn to appreciate their differences?” Lightbulb moment. “Oh, right. That ought to have been obvious. Now, Jael...” She flicks backwards until she finds Judges. “There’s a woman after my own heart.” She reads aloud like she’s telling a child a spooky bedtime story: “ _Jael took a tent peg and a hammer in her hand, and went secretly to him and drove the peg into his temple, and it went through into the ground, for he was sound asleep and exhausted. So he died_.” She looks at him. “Into the fucking ground! You’re lucky I’m not a literalist.”

“And that you don’t have any spare tent pegs lying around.” 

She laughs. “That's quite an assumption on your part. What a manipulative bad-ass, though, Jael. Why does nobody talk about her? Is it the church making sure women don’t get any ideas?” Oof. She doesn’t know the half of it. “Why’d you pick that one?” 

_Because_ you’re _a manipulative bad-ass. Because if you did have a tent peg, it would be in somebody’s skull by now, probably Martin’s but maybe Caroline’s. Because you are crafty, and terrifying, and I have been delivered, like General Sisera, into the hand of a woman._

“Reminded me of you,” he says, knocking another kiss onto her forehead, turning the page. He’s eager to hear her thoughts on _the tongue is a little member that boasteth great things_ , which is partly about her godmother’s passive aggressive shit-talking and partly about oral sex. Ooh, next they can do the gorgeous stuff in Job that he marked mainly because he loves how it sounds: hands that wound and heal, man born to trouble as surely as sparks fly upward. 

He’s about to get stuck in again when she puts her hand on his. “This is fun and all,” she says, tucking in closer to him, if such a thing were possible. “But I was promised filth.”

“Just to clarify,” he says slowly, because to stress her point, her finger skims under the waistband of his shorts. “You’re asking me for Bible porn.” She skims lower and smirks. He clears his throat. “You ready?” 

“What, do I need to gird my loins or something?” She pretends to strap on a seatbelt. 

He cracks up. “Is that what you think that expression means?”

“I don’t know!” she yelps. “I’ve never girded before! I don’t even have loins! I thought it was just like… buckle up?!” 

He gets himself together. You can’t make fun of someone while you're reading love poetry to them, and that’s what he’s about to do. “Okay then. Buckle up.” 

* * *

Song of Solomon would unravel anybody, but it takes a while to work on Phoebe. Mostly because she’s not paying attention to the erotic lyricism of the verses so much as the culturally specific wordplay.

“ _You are altogether beautiful, my darling._ ” He says it right into her ear, low and lilting. If calling her _darling_ makes his heart stutter, referring to her as _mine_ almost ends him.

“Holy shit,” she says, sticking a finger into a sentence halfway down the page. “There’s a channel flowing with nard and saffron? Is that a euphemism for _vagina_?! And what the fuck is nard?”

Jesus, how many times does he have to tell her not to read ahead? “Quiet, you,” he says, jostling her so she’s angled away from the Bible but still held fast against him. “ _Your eyes are as doves behind the veil_.” 

“I don’t know what that means,” she mumbles into his bicep, “but it sounds _smooth_. I can see why this guy had like 60 wives.”

“Totally. But now’s when you just _listen_. I’m trying to woo you here, Phoebe.”

He feels her cheek shift against his arm. She’s smiling. He wishes he could fist-bump God for divinely inspiring an ancient Mesopotamian dude to write the exact brand of horny poetry a woman named Phoebe would someday find amusingly hot.

“Go on, then,” she murmurs, squeezing his arm, sliding her feet under his legs. “Woo me.” She's gone bit puddly. They both know they’re past wooing. They are all the way wooed. 

“ _Your hair is like a flock of goats that have descended from Mount Gilead_ . _Your teeth are like a flock of newly shorn sheep which have come up from their watering place, all of which bear twins--_ ”

“Hang on, this man compares her hair to scraggly matted wool and her smile to dingy fucking sheep? Fuzzy teeth is not a compliment. Fuzzy teeth is how you feel when you wake up hungover, like they’re all wearing nasty little sweaters. And now he expects to get laid? The sheer audacity. I honestly applaud it.” 

He claps his hand over her mouth, and she bites at his palm with her wooly fucking teeth. This is the best morning of his life. He forges ahead. “ _Blah blah blah sexy sheep, all of which bear twins, and not one of them has lost her young._ ”

Well, that’s a bit of a mood killer. He thinks of Claire’s face at the restaurant, drawn and bloodless. He thinks of Helen in A&E. He thinks of himself, young, fucked up, sick with the prospect of fatherhood, relieved when it didn’t come to pass. He thinks of his own dad and how he’d never wanted to be one, either, which Andrew knew because his father had told him so on a number of occasions, including his sixth birthday. He thinks about what his and Phoebe’s children would look like, and wonders how you can feel nostalgic for something that doesn’t exist, and never will.

After a silence, he nudges Phoebe with his chin. “Should I keep going?”

“Yeah,” she says, subdued, perhaps because her thoughts went down a similar path. “Is there more barnyard stuff?” 

“We’re on to botanicals and spices now.” He glances ahead a few verses; Christ, he’ll have to duct tape her mouth shut for the part about the mountain drenched with myrrh. “ _Your mouth drips nectar, honey and milk are under your tongue._ ” He feels her breath hitch. “ _Your lips are like a crimson thread, and your mouth is beautiful._ ”

He cranes to see her face, and she catches him looking. “Just checking,” he says, and leans over to kiss the very corner of her mouth. “About the honey and the crimson lips.”

She goes limp in his arms, a ragdoll with spiky shoulder blades and the ass of an angel. “I’m going to orgasm before you even get to the humping cows or whatever,” she sighs.

“No cows, sadly. But if you shut up for two seconds, I’ll compare your breasts to the twin fawns of a gazelle.”

“What is it with you and my tits?” she tsks. “You’re obsessed. Let’s have it then. Go, go.” 

**Author's Note:**

> You'll be able to follow M&F (I hope) without reading some other stuff first, but it'll be richer and more contextualized if you do. This fic is a sibling to my other works, [The Fox & Flea](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2012479) and [Trouble](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27845862?view_full_work=true). 
> 
> This work also borrows characters and context from the world of bringewritepurge's magnificent [Same Time (ish), Next Year](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22927561/chapters/54802966), as well as our collab, [Okay, Two (fka Born)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29320248/chapters/72007740). Her works are blue locked, so you'll need to register to read them -- but it's more than worth it. (I still read STNY at least one a week, it's that beautiful and absorbing. DO IT. Especially during the current fic drought we're experiencing!)


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